Crime in Comprehension
by TemporarilyAbaft
Summary: Watson had always perceived good fortune in the fact that Holmes' energies were turned in defense of the law. But when a strange countenance overtakes his friend and events turn peculiar and macabre… Well, can we remain quite so sure?
1. No Rest

**_Notes_**

_I've always been fascinated with the morals of Sherlock Holmes (and playing Crimes and Punishments did absolutely nothing to dissuade me from trying this idea out). Justice and perception, after all, are curious things._

_This first section started off in my 221B drabble thread _Journals and Pipes_. I wondered if it should get its own story (because I'm really very interested in pursuing this thought to its fullest capacity [intimidating for someone with so poor an updating schedule as myself]), and after receiving some advice from two particularly helpful reviewers (*winks*), I've decided to move and expand it. So, my apologies if the first chapter seems peculiarly… blocky. _

_Reviews, comments, and criticisms are _always_ helpful and appreciated._

_Well, dearies, here we go… *pulls out cloak and disappears inside, chuckling malevolently* _

**No Rest**

There were few things quite as unnerving to John Watson as Holmes, in the midst of a dark mood, disappearing without word.

For the better part of a month, Holmes had fallen prey to a brooding despondency. Watson presumed it was set off by some failure in a case. Whatever Holmes' musings were, Watson knew not; only that his eyes had remained dull since his return from the unreported affair at the Pritchard estate, and that any efforts to draw him out of his depression remained unsuccessful. The detective maintained reticence, his infrequent responses resigned to nothing better than passionless observations.

Only upon one occasion – earlier the same afternoon of Holmes' disappearance – had he offered a statement demonstrating any presence of thought. Emerging from his dark room and wrapped absently in his old mouse-colored dressing gown, Holmes had stared into the fire, expression hollow.

"_Reputation is an idle and most false imposition;" _he intoned, "_oft got without merit…_"

"… _And lost without deserving_," Watson finished quietly, eyeing Holmes' expression warily. "Holmes?"

The detective continued to stare, apparently lost – again – in thought. Not for the first time, Watson marveled sadly at the change that had overtaken his companion. Holmes was pale and his eyes frightfully shadowed; he was obviously weary. But the most frightening change in Holmes' appearance was the sense of defeat that had settled so immutably upon his bent shoulders, drooped head.

And still, Watson knew not how this weight had taken root.

Holmes had said nothing more, and, spying the trembling hands and clouded gaze, Watson felt a growing sense of urgent concern. "Holmes, old fellow, are you alright?"

With a start, Holmes returned. His expression cleared (although, a mournful despondency lurked about his eyes) and he turned to Watson, seizing a sudden breath.

"Yes. Yes – My apologies."

He shuffled towards the fire and collapsed limply into his armchair, his right hand coming to rest over his eyes.

Watson did not bother to ask if Holmes was sleeping well (quite obviously, he was not; Holmes would only deride the question as one lacking observation). Nor did he try and draw Holmes into conversation. Instead, he kept his silence and watched.

Even while the gloom of melancholy still hung about his companion's shoulders, Watson sensed that, possibly, Holmes had reached a turning point in his depression. The emergence of Holmes from his bedroom was itself an improvement. There was more, however; Watson could not place his finger on the precise attribute that had led to the conclusion, but he felt as if Holmes was no longer completely consumed in whatever grief had haunted him the last couple of weeks.

Likely, it was nothing more than the instinct of a friend, but Watson suspected that Holmes had made his mind up about something and, whatever that decision was, he could at last move forward.

Watson continued to discretely watch his friend, making sure to turn the pages of his book every so often so Holmes would not hear his diverted attention.

_Sure enough_: slowly, Holmes' breathing began to even out.

In no more than five minutes, the detective's posture slumped in such a fashion that Watson was sure his weariness – or some quiet decision settling in that over-thinking mind of his – had overcome his insomnia.

Silently, Watson closed his book and eased a blanket from its position across the back of the settee. He draped it about the detective, dimmed the gaslights, and shut the door behind him as he left the sitting room.

Downstairs, gathering coat and cane, he informed the landlady that he would return later. "Holmes is resting, and I daresay he is in dire need of it. Perhaps the chemist can suggest something to help him sleep – preferably," he clarified with a tilt of his head, "in bed."

* * *

><p>Watson spent a cautious hour and a half finishing errands so as to leave the flat perfectly restive while he was away and afford opportunity to purchase a sleeping agent (should occasion arise that it be necessary.)<p>

Unfortunately, he returned _not_ to a resting Holmes but an apologetic Mrs. Hudson.

"I'm sorry, sir. I know you wanted him to sleep. But not even twenty minutes ago, he came plodding down the stairs, all bundled up in coat and whatnot, and he just… took off."

"_Holmes_," Watson sighed, desperate frustration evident. "_Drat_ that man. Did he say where he was off to?"

"Not a word, Doctor. I tried to get some explanation out of him, but he was silent as death. Just kept marching along, right out that door."

There was little to be done; he _could_ investigate where Holmes had been seen going to, but to what end? Watson shook his head curtly and huffed. "The man is deucedly stubborn. There is no help for it, Mrs. Hudson."

Comfortingly, she touched his arm. She did not speak until he'd lifted his eyes to hers. Unsurprisingly, her expression was knowing; after all, he was not the only one to worry after Holmes' health. "You just keep by his side, as you've always done, sir." She smiled gently. "He'll come 'round."

With little more to be done, he returned to the sitting room. An hour later, Watson heard the downstairs door open.

Strange; was he relieved or irritated to hear the familiar baritone?

However, while Holmes' voice was familiar, his appearance was not. Watson watched the door open and was unprepared to discover that his friend had been replaced by a seedy, bearded vagrant.

"Watson, I've just had the most curious discussion with—" He paused in his flurry of motion to squint at the doctor, who was frowning in confusion. "Ah," he smiled wanly. "The disguise?"

"Holmes," Watson answered instead, "several hours ago I left you _here_. You were _sleeping_."

A dark flicker crossed the detective's features, gaunt beneath the heavy coat, hat, and facial hair. "Your statement indicates the presence of a question," he replied coolly, "and yet you've voiced none."

"I _only mean_—" Watson paused and took a hasty breath, realizing his voice had snapped. Anger would do little good; he wasn't angry, after all, he was simply concerned. He settled back into his chair resignedly. Holmes, for his part, seemed to recognize that Watson did not intend accusations and relaxed.

"Look, Holmes. I've said nothing. I've not pressed you for details on your previous case." The detective stiffened in the process of removing his disguise's accoutrements, but remained silent. "I am aware of your 'dark moods', and I only wish to help.

"It does not take a physician to observe you are exhausted," Watson continued kindly. "And that is why I react so poorly when you forsake rest for business."

Silence. Holmes faced the table and set aside his disguise. Watson heard his tired friend chuckle wryly as he gazed at the abandoned costume. Watson heard him softly echo "_business_," his tone pitched as if perceiving some secret connotation in the word. He wondered if Holmes had meant to speak aloud.

When he turned again toward Watson he gave a listless, but gracious, smile. "My dear fellow," he addressed quietly. A few moments' contemplation and the detective went to the side table, pouring two brandies and delivering one to his friend.

"I understand your concern, Watson, and I am once again flattered by the generous friendship you continue to extend to my churlish self." He gave the doctor an observant glance, appearing for a moment the detective of old. "I perceive you've brought something from the chemist."

_No desire to talk, then, _Watson concluded disappointedly. However, he was pleased to hear the gentleness and patience in Holmes' voice; as noted before, his spirit seemed further removed from its previous depression. Now, it was his body that needed recovery. The illness of one would inform the other, Watson knew. As such, he decided cut his losses and let the matter drop, if only for the moment.

"Well, if you're so inclined, old fellow, I've bought a sleeping medicine."

"To be honest," Holmes exhaled, eyebrows lifting in an oddly open expression of surrender, "I would be… appreciative." His expression grew dark, and quietly he admitted, "My dreams have not been kind, of late."

"Holmes, perhaps if you talked—"

Quite suddenly, there was a pull at the bell downstairs. Naturally, Holmes' attention was immediately diverted, and Watson was unable to retain his composure: he groaned aloud bitterly at the untimely interruption.


	2. Idleness the Root

**Idleness the Root**

Luckily, Holmes took no notice of Watson's slip and listened at the door, interest alight in his hollowed eyes.

"Watson, please entertain Inspector Lestrade while I freshen up," he demanded suddenly, and he seized his discarded costume and rushed into his bedroom.

Watson scrubbed a hand across his face, perhaps hoping it would erase the exasperation evident upon his brow. He opened the door and managed politely, "'Evening, Lestrade," although, to his ears, it sounded a bit gruff.

"Good evening, doctor. Have _I_ got one for Holmes, and no mistake," the man growled, tramping up the final steps to the landing and heading inside, straight for the whisky upon the side table. "Medicinal, you understand," he pardoned unnecessarily, filling a modest glass and draining it.

Watson shut the door, eyebrows raised. "Holmes will be here in just a moment, Inspector," he said loudly.

He approached the short man and gripped his arm. Startled by the unexpected motion, he returned Watson's look searchingly. They were silent for a moment before Watson finally implored sotto voce, "Lestrade, I'll be frank with you. Holmes has been unwell of late. He is not himself, and I'm worried. Do you _absolutely _need his assistance in this case?"

In the three year interim of Holmes' hiatus abroad, Lestrade and Watson's friendship had grown stronger, and it was to this familiarity that Lestrade softened now. "I'm sorry, John. But – ah, you'll understand when I explain it all. I'm afraid we're… Well, we're honestly a bit flummoxed on how to proceed."

"That is certainly not _too_ extraordinary a circumstance, Inspector," Holmes drawled from the doorway of his room. His coat was straightened, his hair combed back, and he appeared attentive; although, weariness remained discernibly upon the tight lines of his face.

Understandably, the comment was met with twin glares and a sigh of exasperation which Holmes readily ignored.

"Perhaps we can be seated. I see you've already helped yourself to the contents upon the side table, Lestrade – yes," he said loudly, speaking over the officer's disgruntled protest, "that's of course quite alright. A murdered body is a sight to which one never grows accustomed."

Lestrade scowled, turning his gaze towards Watson with the unspoken accusation, _I thought you said he was out of sorts_. Watson shrugged minutely. Apparently, exhaustion had not softened either Holmes' tongue or observation skills.

"As usual, you've _guessed_ it," Lestrade admitted loftily, choosing his verb carefully so as to annoy Holmes. Its use did not go unnoticed and a tremor or irritation passed through the detective's jaw. With a grumble, Lestrade settled upon the settee. "No need straining that head of yours; honestly, _every time_… If you'd ever just sit patiently I'd happily _tell_ you."

"Well come Lestrade," the detective snapped, "have out with it then, if you're going to!" He ran a hand over his hair agitatedly, forcing himself to lean back into his chair.

"Alright, _alright_." Lestrade waited a moment for Watson to retrieve his notebook and began when all were settled.

"One David Johnson was discovered this evening in one of the shadier alleyways near St. Giles – well, if there _are _alleyways more shady than another 'round those parts."

Watson pulled a face. "A dead man in St. Giles? That's hardly surprising, Lestrade."

Lestrade glared, and Watson gave an innocent shrug. "Well, there's _more to it than that_, isn't there? Honestly, you're becoming as awful as Holmes."

The detective in question responded with a faint grimace of a smile, which Lestrade inferred as an invitation to continue.

"Well, anyway. When we found the chap, he was sprawled out in such a fashion that we think he collapsed nearer the street and was dragged back further into the darkness of the alleyway. His complexion said 'suffocation', so until we get the results from the police surgeon, we're supposing a poison."

Holmes held up a faintly tremoring hand to interrupt. "To clarify; you infer that he was dragged by the position of his body and the scuffs along the heels of his shoes?" Lestrade nodded. "And you say poison rather than some other form of asphyxiation – say, an accidental obstruction of the breathing passages or strangulation – given the factors that he was obviously dragged away by a second person and that there were no marks upon the neck?"

Lestrade shook his head with grudging appreciation. "Of course, you're quite right, Mr. Holmes. And you didn't even have to see the bloody thing." He sighed and continued seriously. "You understand, we've taken into consideration all of your methods with this case; we wanted to be sure we'd tried everything before consulting you."

"Then I assume," Holmes inquired, "you have made a thorough search of the crime scene and victim's belongings?" Absently, a hand rose to tug at his collar.

"Yes, we have. And we don't like what we've found. Or rather, not found."

Holmes' head tilted a fraction, his pale face pulling into an expression of query.

"That's why I've come to consult you, Mr. Holmes. We _know_ there was another person involved, but we can't find any trace of the chap."

The detective snorted. "Surely you've just not looked hard enough." Watson frowned, noting that Holmes was becoming steadily paler, a small trickle of sweat rolling down his temple. Discretely, the Doctor rose to pour a glass of water, handing it to his friend.

"I'm telling you, Holmes, we made absolutely sure before I came here." The Inspector spread his hands helplessly. "We see the marks of Johnson being dragged. We even see where some of his steps faltered along the sidewalk outside. But there is absolutely no trace of a second person. And Johnson certainly didn't drag himself."

Holmes was frowning, concentrating his gaze on the glass of water clutched in his hand. When he didn't appear ready to speak, Lestrade continued desperately.

"Holmes, surely a case like this appeals to you? There' evidence of murder, and yet nothing – besides a logical conclusion – to prove it. This is precisely the sort of puzzle you're good at solving. And," he continued with a self-deprecating scowl, "it'd be a perfect occasion to prove how superior your observational abilities are to those of the Yard's."

Still, Holmes said nothing.

Quietly, Watson prompted, "… Holmes?"

The detective lifted his head and shook it. "No, I think not this time, Lestrade. I'm sure you've done what you can."

Lestrade and Watson stared.

"Holmes, you can't be serious. You're not even going to _look—"_

"No, Lestrade, I'm afraid I'm uninterested at present. As Watson will likely have told you, I'm not feeling quite well." The detective rose suddenly, depositing the glass of water upon the table and quickly seeking out Lestrade's hand to shake. "Goodnight, Inspector. Thank you for stopping by."

Lestrade's mouth worked up and down several times in a piscine fashion, no sound managing to escape. Watson took the initiative in his stead. "Holmes, are you quite alright?"

"Perfectly," Holmes responded hastily, turning towards his bedroom on faintly wobbling legs. "Please, do see the Inspector out."

And with the slam of his door, the matter was closed.

Bemused, the inspector and doctor stared at one another.

"Not… Going to take the case?" Lestrade repeated softly, eyes wide. "A murder case? … Because the Yard's likely _done what it can?_"

Watson shook his head slowly, expression equally dumbfounded. "Perhaps I should see you to the door, Inspector."

Downstairs, Lestrade hesitated at the door, pausing in his action of putting on hat and gloves. "Keep an eye on him, John," he murmured with a lifted eyebrow. "I've known Mr. Holmes for a smidgen longer than you – though certainly not as well – and I don't think I've ever seen him in a state like this."

He wasn't referring to Holmes' weary appearance, or even his strange behavior, and Watson understood. Both of them could sense a change in the detective, although neither could put a finger on the shift precisely.

Watson nodded. "Take care, Lestrade."

With a degree of apprehension, Watson made his way back upstairs. He stood outside Holmes' door that met the landing, listening. After a moment's silence, he rapped upon the wood with a knuckle. "Holmes? Holmes, are you alright?"

"The sitting room, Watson," Holmes called quietly.

Watson found his friend standing before the table, pouring himself a new glass of water. There was rattling as his shaking hand caused the pitcher and glass to knock against one another.

"Are you alright?" Watson repeated warily.

Holmes drained his glass and hung his head, giving a deep sigh. "I'm as well as can be expected, Watson."

The doctor frowned. It wasn't really an answer. "Holmes, old chap, I think it's time you tried to sleep."

Numbly, Holmes turned around and nodded. He wiped a hand across his mouth and shuffled towards his bedroom while the doctor went to his coat, removing the parcel he'd bought from the chemist.

The detective settled into bed and accepted the soporific readily. Holmes engaged in none of his usual commentary regarding the doctor's ministrations, which was perhaps an alarming development in itself.

In Holmes' silence, Watson's mind was left to circulate among his unanswered questions and suspicions. Despite feeling unwell, the detective was able to discern the frown creasing his companion's brow.

"My dear doctor, you must learn to hide your thoughts from your expressions. They betray you abominably."

Watson huffed, and a sleepy smile struggled to Holmes' mouth. The doctor shook his head. "Later, Holmes. For now, just get some sleep." He made sure the curtains were shut before he closed the door of Holmes' bedroom.

He wandered toward his chair. He did not sit, but stood, bracing himself against the back with one hand, and rubbing his face with the other.

For a long two minutes, the doctor did nothing but stand, his thoughts, in their concern for Holmes, tumbling over one uncertainty after another. Eventually, although it pained him to do it, he opened his eyes and fixed a stare upon the top drawer of Holmes' desk.

His legs moved of their own volition, and quite before he realized he was doing it, he'd turned the key in the lock and opened the drawer. Inside laid the usual trinkets. And untouched remained the Morocco case.


	3. In the Grass

**In the Grass**

The next morning, Watson was relieved to discover that Holmes was still – soundly – asleep when he eased open Holmes' bedroom door. The twitches and frowns that usually accompanied Holmes' tense rest were absent, and Watson hoped that he would wake refreshed.

He took breakfast and sat down to read, grateful for the quiescent nature of the household. Eventually, Holmes stirred and entered the sitting room, minimally dressed in a clean shirt, trousers, and comfortable dressing gown.

"Good afternoon, Holmes."

"And to you, Watson." Quietly, he poured himself cold coffee and picked up a slice of toast that had been left from breakfast.

"If you wait a moment, old chap, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson will be up with lunch."

"No, that's alright. I'm not terribly hungry." He settled himself into his chair with a sigh.

If nothing else, at least Holmes _looked_ better. The shadows under his eyes were not nearly as worrisome, and the tremor had left his hands. "Well, Holmes," Watson began suddenly. "How do you feel?"

Holmes lifted an eyebrow in faint amusement. "If you mean, how did I sleep? Better, Watson."

"Good. I'm glad to hear it."

Holmes nodded evasively, casting his glance about for the newspaper. "Where is the—"

"Table, Holmes."

They did not speak to one another again for several hours. Both could sense the growing discomfort in the air, an unfamiliar entity in their quarters. Holmes, it seemed, was absolutely unwilling to begin conversation. Watson suspected that it was for fear of discussing what had been on his mind the evening previous.

Hours later, Watson tried to initiate a conversation again. "So, Holmes. Do you think you will take on a case soon?"

"I really cannot say."

Watson frowned, turning in his seat to stare at Holmes where he sat idly adjusting his chemistry equipment. "You must be deucedly bored," he observed frankly.

The detective gave a blank look and small shrug. "I suppose I'll accept a case when one appears of sufficient interest."

"Holmes –"

"Please excuse me, doctor. I wanted to do some research this afternoon." Without further delay, the detective swept into his room. Watson had never known his friend to flee, but he could not help but feel that this was precisely what the detective had done.

Two hours later, when the sun was making its descent upon the horizon in anticipation of an autumn sunset, Holmes reemerged. He stretched and went to the window to observe the street below.

Watson checked his pocket watch and stretched as well. "I daresay Mrs. Hudson will be by with super soon, old chap."

Holmes hummed in assent. Eventually he turned around with a wan grin. "So, Watson. What shall the diversion be tonight? A game of chess? Or perhaps a stroll to one of the parks."

Watson smiled softly, but the edges sunk downward all too quickly. "Well, actually, Homes. I had rather hoped you'd be more open to… talking. This evening."

Holmes' grin weakened as well, and his shoulders tensed in the too-familiar melancholy of the last few weeks. "Really, Watson, I think I'd prefer not." He wandered over to his armchair and sank into it.

"Well, as I've said before, it may help you to discuss what is bothering you."

"Really, dear fellow, there is nothing to discuss."

Watson's eyebrows shot up. "Really," he stated blandly.

Holmes' mouth twitched in irritation, but his voice remained even. "Really, Watson. I insist. I am alright. There is nothing ailing me that time won't fix."

Watson felt himself cringe inside, his reply coming quickly to his lips. Quietly, he reminded, "It's been weeks, Holmes, and I don't think you're getting any better."

The piqued glare returned, and Holmes' jaw clenched.

"Please, just listen. Last night, Lestrade offered you a case. Why did you turn it down?"

"I have turned down the Yard's cases in the past, Watson."

Watson shook his head. "Not like that one, Holmes." In the silence, Watson raised a hand in appeal. "Come, now. You know as well as I that it was a case perfectly suited to your interests."

The detective scoffed. "Watson, I don't understand you. Moments before the Inspector's arrival, you were scolding me for neglecting rest for business. And after all of that, are you saying you _want_ me to pursue a murder case at present?"

Watson felt a flush rise across his neck, and he cleared his throat. "Holmes, you know what I meant."

"Actually, no, perhaps I don't."

The flat reply did nothing to ease Watson's hair-trigger temper. "Holmes, I only mean to say that it is _unlike _you. And it was evident that you were not denying the case for sake of sparing your health. There was more."

Holmes threw his hands in the air. "I reiterate. What might I have done to appease you? Accept the case? Solve a nice little puzzle like a _good _detective and return home in time for supper and bed?" Watson's sigh was more akin to a growl than a breath, and Holmes' expression darkened still further. "No, please tell me, _doctor._"

"I would just like to know what is wrong with you!"

Holmes surged to his feet. "Must I define it for you? Insomnia. I would have thought that diagnosis was simple enough, even for _you_ to manage on your own," he sneered angrily.

Watson found himself on his feet, closing the distance between himself and the detective. "Holmes, you know _damn well_ what I'm talking about!"

"Don't presume my intelligence, doctor! Please, enlighten me!"

"_Why _are you prevaricating?!"

Holmes growled and spun away, hands shaking anew as he sought out his pipe. Watson felt his voice rising. "_Why do you persist _in avoiding my questions? Fine! If you need my help explaining the obvious, then I'll happily oblige. I've tried to be patient and understanding, but this has gone on too long. _You_, Holmes, are currently a _useless wreck._"

The detective thrust his pipe back upon the mantle with a slap. "I am not _here_ to be your wind-up sentinel of justice, doctor." He spun around with a snarl, outrage contorting his features in rarely displayed passion. "I am only _useless _because _men like you_ have made me into a purpose! A tool! I am _neither, doctor!" _This was delivered in a furious shout.

Watson seethed, hand jabbing through the air at his target. He was not sure if he was even making a point anymore; all he knew was that his mouth was suddenly betraying every dark thought he'd hidden away in the intervening weeks. "I don't know what the_ hell_ happened on the last case – because _heaven forbid _you share the details with me – but I can only presume that you _failed. _Utterly. _Abysmally_. That your great damn towering logic deserted you." Holmes' face paled, and his head jerked back as if struck. "Predictably, you have decided to _compound _your failure by locking yourself away, keeping company with your doubts and self-recriminations, and thrusting any concern back at those sympathetic enough to mete it out. And now you have the _audacity_ to blame _'men like me_' for _using you_?"

Suddenly, his voice became plaintive. "_Using you_, Holmes?! What could _possibly_ deliver that thought up into your mind?"

The silence was stifling, and it entered the vacuum of fiery shouts with shocking promptness. The two stood apart from one another in frozen postures, the doctor flushed pink from his angry tirade, and the detective dreadfully pale.

"I. Your _friend_, Holmes…!"

Agitated, Watson turned away. Holmes, for his part, appeared shrunken against the mantelpiece.

A cough preceded the disheartened croak of, "Watson…" and it took all of Watson's will to bring his self-control back into line. As often happened, it took only moments to regret his loss of composure.

Quickly, he ran through everything he'd shouted. _How much of it did I mean_, he wondered desperately.

It was discomfiting to realize that he'd meant every word.

Had he meant to hurt Holmes' feelings? Turning around to face the detective, observing the guarded expression and unconsciously defensive posture of his oldest friend, he quickly decided that there had to have been a better way of dealing with their frustration.

Even so, he couldn't help but feel a flicker of liberation for having vented his emotions so completely. In his mind, he felt the insults only equal recompense for the offenses made first by Holmes.

Slowly, Watson's temper waned, and he took a heavy breath. Holmes straightened, eyes flickering around the room. Only when Watson moved first – to pour a brandy at the side table – did Holmes turn to pick up his pipe.

He paused in the act of lighting it when Watson returned, wordlessly offering him that same brandy. Solemnly, he accepted it and murmured, "Thank you, Watson."

Watson nodded with a weary sigh, clapping a hand upon Holmes' shoulder. The detective tensed, but said nothing.

It was uneasy and imperfect by all measures, but it was a signal of truce. For now.

Neither of them had the will to speak, so Watson gathered up a book that had been resting upon the table and poured a second brandy before going upstairs, leaving Holmes to stare at the glass in his hand.

In the comfort of his own room, Watson realized that, really, Holmes had still revealed _nothing_ concerning the root of his black mood. The only concrete declaration he had made – a desperate accusation, really – had been regarding his usefulness as a detective.

_I am not here to be your wind-up sentinel of justice, doctor, _the acerbic snarl echoed in his mind. _I am only useless because men like you have made me into a purpose! A tool! I am neither, doctor!_

He remembered the look in Holmes' eyes, furious and spiteful. He had made that dreadful statement wholly aware of the depth of its censure. There had been a very dark and deep shadow in those words, and for the first time, Watson felt an uncomfortable chill. What, precisely, was Holmes thinking in that moment? Feeling?

Somewhere in those words lay the origin of Holmes' agitation; of that, Watson was sure. Like Lestrade had said – _I don't think I've ever seen him in a state like this._ He had the impression that Holmes was experiencing a grave valley of doubt. And to what end? From what origin?

A door closing downstairs jolted the doctor from his thoughts. Curious, he reentered the sitting room and found it empty. Looking out the window, he spied Holmes' dark, familiar stature making his solitary way out of Baker Street.

* * *

><p><em>From the personal journal of Anthony Dubeck, November 12<em>_th_

Last night, I met Sherlock Holmes.

This is an aspect of fate which fascinates me; I believe I shall have to discuss it with Meyer, when next we meet. Consider: Have you ever been caught in the tangle of an unwieldy moral thought, or the complicated skein of a plan, that requires some outside signal or element to assist you in clearing it up? I confess it has always happened thus; that I may reach a juncture of indecision and be rescued by the timely appearance of a catalyst.

As I sat in that dilapidated, ruined tavern contemplating my lot, I could only regard the entrance of Sherlock Holmes – modern England's very symbol of logic and justice – as the very same hand of fate that has guided me oft before.

Meyer, you are aware of my fascination with Mr. Holmes. I have studied his monographs with the utmost interest and followed his exploits in the newspapers. In the quest for clear thinking, there is no hero as enviable as Holmes.

What a gift fate had lain before me last night – while I sat debating the nature of homicide, the champion of crime himself appeared!

I will recount our conversation. I was unable to last night, for reasons I shall indicate later.

He entered in disguise – oh Meyer, it was perfectly delightful! – and, in gruff playacting, demanded beer and food. These he accepted and tossed upon a table in the corner, settling himself that he may observe and be undisturbed.

You'll remember that I am awfully good at faces. He'd done up his cheeks with false whiskers and held his jaw in a different manner than usual, but I could tell by the eyes and shoulders that it was Holmes all right. I'd studied the photos and been by his house on Baker Street enough times to be sure.

I hesitated, but I reminded myself of the coincidence and fate, and so stood with my own drink and approached him.

"What do you want," was the terse demand.

I confess I laughed. Poor Holmes frowned at the reaction, so I hastened to explain. "I'm sorry, sir, but I only desired a conversation. One poor pub goer to another," I said slyly.

He regarded me strangely, then, so I raised a placating hand. "There is so little opportunity to have intelligent conversation in these parts, and I'm afraid that… Well, I recognize you, sir."

He continued to frown at me, but I do believe I saw disappointment flicker across his eyes. "Well, sit down, then," he conceded finally, picking idly at his meal. "If I can't manage a proper disguise, I suppose I should suffer the consequences."

"Consequences?"

He gave a heavy sigh. "Well, what is it then? Are you a reporter? A reader of Dr. Wats—"

"Actually, sir, I am neither. I rather wished to discuss your monographs. Perhaps even philosophy."

An eyebrow quirked at that. The intelligent expression seemed out of sorts with his disguise. "Is that so?"

"Indeed. I am much intrigued by your scientific mind. Indeed – with the role science may play in moral judgment."

His responses were guarded at first, but when it became clear that I had no intention of beleaguering him about his cases, he began to relax, warming to the unfamiliar territory of our discussion. My confidence thrilled as his responses made clear that his thinking was similar to my own.

"You are familiar, I presume, with the works of Dostoyevsky?" I queried.

He nodded, taking a swallow of his drink. "I am aware of them, yes."

Our conversation segued into the debate of accountability. "It is a fascinating concept; are there heroes among murderers?" I settled back in my chair. "Is it the responsibility of intellectuals to deliver omniscient justice?"

Holmes said nothing for a short time, his brow clouded as he considered my words. "Justice," he repeated thoughtfully. "Justice is indeed a strange concept."

I said nothing, but my heart delighted to hear him consider my words. Our conversation came to an end not soon after, Holmes standing and, in the character of his disguise, growling, "Intrestin' conversation, lad. 'Ere." He threw down several coins with a half-smile. "One on me."

He sauntered out of the tavern, presumably to make his way back home.

Fate had provided me my catalyst, and I took her advice. At Holmes' acceptance, I decided I must continue my intellectual investigation. Luckily, the gentleman I had had in mind – a blackmailer, the parasite, no doubting his guilt – frequented a tavern down the street. I'd done my research and kept tabs on him. The concoction I'd perfected weighed my coat's upper pocket – Meyer, it had been sitting there for two weeks. You see, then, the blessing of Holmes' appearance?

That is enough for now. The first experiment has been completed, and I shall be eager to contemplate its implications. I look forward to my next intellectual debate.

* * *

><p><strong>Just a quick clarification, because reading back through it I don't know if it's clear. The journal entry was written the same day as this chapter, so "last night" was last chapter. <strong>


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